The Rules
by CyanGalaxy
Summary: 「"1. Weekdays bed before 2am don't get up later than 10:30am..."」 In which a sheet of rules written by himself and Phil help Dan get through the week... or at least is meant to.


_"Depression is like I've fallen into a hole, that 'normal life' and everybody else is out of reach and I'm stuck on the floor in the dark." – d.h_

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 **TW: depression & suicidal thoughts.**

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 _ **The Rules**_ , it read in huge, bold writing upon the piano stand as if it were as innocent as a sheet of a beautiful melodic piano piece. The reality was far from it really, not in any aspect alike. The paper wasn't beautiful, rather ugly, standing out frustratingly amongst all the other clutter in the room. It was somewhat painful to see it every time he walked into his room, woke up, went to bed... well passed 3am. He didn't want it there; it was a constant reminder of what needed to be written down in order to help fix the chemicals in his non-function neurosystem to even themselves out – to become balance like a normal, stable person's would be, like _his should be._

He was incapable, he knew – and it was so fucking infuriating. Just like a child that needed a bed time routine so it wouldn't be a cranky, tired, difficult little shit the next day, or a student with a lousy-ass homework planner so it wouldn't forget its primary school assignment on the life cycle of a frog, Daniel Howell needed set rules as to when he could go to sleep and get up, because if he didn't, the will to get up at all was as important as eating, as making videos, as talking, as living when the lack of dopamine in his brain was causing everything to feel mind-killingly numb – times at which all of that didn't feel very important at all.

 _1\. Weekdays bed before 2am_

 _don't get up later than 10:30am_

That was the first rule, written yesterday afternoon, and already broken. The sunlight that leaked desperately through the shut closed curtains were enough to realise that time had passed well beyond twelve o'clock, not to mention he'd been lying here for four hours now since he'd actually opened his eyes.

 _2\. Weekdays productive until 5pm_

He should be mad at himself – he was. He should get up – he can't. He should hate himself – he did. Yet, Dan found it impossible to actually care, as if his thoughts on absolutely anything were insignificant compare to the numbness taking over the ability to even distantly care about wanting to die.

Because sitting up was strength he didn't have, and taking a shower was effort he didn't possess, and God know's leaving his room was an impossibility he wasn't going to conquer today at all – to the point where staring at the fucking piece of paper that was supposed to _stop_ this from happening was making him hear that constant voice screaming, "You, Dan Howell, are incapable, codependent, mentally disabled, clinically depressed — so you should die," over and over and over and over again.

 _3\. no breaks until the weekend_

It hurt; like drowning when no one even knew he were out of air, or falling from the sky, screaming and terrified when everybody else had a parachute, like being trapped in a hole where everyone else is out of reach and he was left shaking, alone and empty on the floor.

Today was a bad day. A day where Dan wouldn't get up until his head hurt from the mild dehydration, where he wouldn't look in the mirror, where he'd avoid anyone around him because they were normal-nuero-function people whom he didn't deserve – and didn't deserve to be brought down by the depressing guy with depression.

But despite everything, he didn't even have the energy to hate this anymore. _All_ of this. Because he had become so numb to being fucking depressed, that it was a normality – and when lying on the bed or floor for most of the day, ditching the needs of basic self care like bathing and eating, and experiencing the physical feeling of isolation mixed within a cocktail of detachment became his normal, his routine, his _life_ , Dan realised this was a thing he couldn't have tearing him apart any longer.

And he had a choice.

Today, the rule sheet reminded him of everything depression was made of, the way he couldn't stand the way it made him think and feel. He saw himself reflected in the bold letters, the numbered rules, the two signed names at the bottom and saw himself as a burden staring back. It was awful and horrible and the whole paper made him see everything he hated about himself and his fucked up brain, yet he didn't look away from the sight as he never felt the impact of his own hatred.

Maybe tomorrow he could see it as a light, stability, or perhaps not the end of the tunnel, but the correct pathway out. It was a guide, he knew. Not a cure, not a fix, not a way to rewire his brain the right way, but an aid in healthy wellbeing. He would follow the rules, and in return be rewarded with emotion, passion, energy – because Dan Howell was excited and scared and overwhelmed and delighted and annoyed and in love, yet he just needed the blackness of the fog to seep away to _feel_ again.

So he decided to texted someone, probably a few meters away, behind a couple walls. Dan was vulnerable and tired and detached, but it would be okay, because he wouldn't have to be alone like he had been before for most of this life. They could drink hot chocolate, or watch Game of Thrones, or do whatever they really wanted, because it _would_ be okay... it would. Dan knew he just needed help – wether from a friend, a doctor, his family, the fans or a maybe even a bottle of antidepressants... he was going to make it out of this darkening hole alive, climbing out from the bottom like his life depended on it...

And the first handhold, the first anchor to his freedom: a sheet of boldly written rules with two names signed in the corners.

 _Dan Howell P. Lester_

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 **A/N:**

 **i am very aware the ending is trash and kinda cheesy, but i couldn't end it badly, okay ;~; i write enough angst as it is, people.**

 **okay, now... this flash story came about after reading some article about fans noticing a sheet of paper called 'the rules' in dan's old videos, then figuring out what it said and then linking it back to his depression from the recent video he uploaded. i don't really know why but that kinda just stuck with me, and it turned into this poor representation of what** _ **might**_ **be going on in someone's head with metal illness. i have to be honest, i obviously don't know what he may have thought during these times, other than what he explained in is video, so it's a little mix between what dan described depression as like and what i personally think from my own issues with mental illnesses.**

 **it felt very strange to write about an actually person, since it's not what I'm used to X3. forgive me, i know this sucks :3.**

 **\- CyanGalaxy**


End file.
